


Lost and Found

by ThatHydrokinetic



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: ((or not netflix looking at you)), Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I'm just Not Going To Pretend, M/M, Post-Canon, anyways i'm hoping posting this will force me to finish it, aren't going to take their toll, at least not more so than canon?, especially now that i at least know how it ends, i just love angst and comfort, it's also not? that violent?, that a year of running and loss, the ending we were all robbed of, the entire squad pops up eventually, this is set after the finale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-02-24 11:44:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13213035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatHydrokinetic/pseuds/ThatHydrokinetic
Summary: It's been one year since Dick Grayson quit the team, one year since Wally West disappeared in a puff of smoke in the middle of the Antarctic. The team hasn't heard from either of them since.Until, of course, Wally washes up on the coast of North Carolina at the same time as Dick finds himself conveniently predisposed by a group of kidnappers, and no one's quite sure what to do with either of them.Title from Fake It, by Bastille.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> will shelby ever get their shit together and finish this? you better hope so.

When Nightwing took a break from the team, it had been with every intention to return before the year was over. He had just been so tired of  _ losing _ people—his parents, his brother, his best friend. So he returned control of the team to Kaldur, walked away from the Watchtower, and took off the costume. He hadn’t expected the break to last very long.

It has been a year.

Both Tim and Barbara have tried multiple times to get ahold of him, but a superhero knows how to hide, even from his siblings. He moved cities twice, changed his name in public records three times, and switches credit card companies monthly. He’s not even sure why he’s trying so hard to get away.

He keeps expecting to wake up and feel that need, again. The thing that kept him going for ten years of superheroing. He awaits even just the desire to see his friends. But every morning the distance between him and who he was only increases. Trips to the gym go from every day to weekdays to hopefully-I’ll-have-time. The Nightwing costume rarely leaves the trunk at the foot of his bed anymore, and his weapons are far behind on their upkeep.

He wonders if, when the time comes, he’ll even want to go back.

***

Wally remembers seeing the white sheets cover his vision and thinking,  _ This is the end _ . Except he can still feel; he is still running. He hoped he would finally be free in death.

It isn't too much longer before water starts filling his lungs and he realizes  _ No, I'm not dead yet _ . And also that he will be if he doesn't gain better control of his limbs.

The best he can manage to do is climb to the surface, fill his lungs with air and set his body to float on the frigid waves. He thinks he can see something etching along the skyline, not too far away, but his body is so drained of everything that he doesn’t think he can make it even there. So he falls asleep, the unforgiving sun the only thing countering the cold seeping through his ruined costume.

He is lucky; the waves aren't bad, and the current brings him closer, rather than farther, from shore. It is a stroke of luck in a lifetime void of them.

The people on the shore recognize him almost instantly. It is hard not to; the bright yellow suit is such a Kid Flash trademark.

But Wally, who once couldn't get enough of being around others, feels sick at the sudden influx of people around him as everyone clusters to see the fallen hero.

Police are finally able to break through the crowd, medical personnel close behind. He is carried on a stretcher to an ambulance, where they flurry and mutter and he tries not to flinch at their touch.

It is disorienting, and confusing, and unnerving.

He wakes up a little later on a hospital bed, both of his legs and his torso wrapped heavily in bandages, IV in his arm, nodes on his chest. Wally can only groan at the suddenness of  _ feeling _ .

Two doctors are in the room in seconds. They check him over and ask him questions, but they are questions he can hardly understand, let alone know the answer to. He keeps asking the date. They tell him to try and go back to sleep.

The next time he is awake, it is because he is electrocuted.

The electricity comes from the very agitated speedster that rockets into the room, lighting arcing off of his red suit in waves. Wally must still have some residual energy in his system because his speed force attracts his uncle's, and twin spirals wind across his skin.

"Honestly, Kid, whatwereyouthinking? HowdidyouevengetintothePacificOcean? Youwerejustsupposedtobeatbaseallday—"

The Flash's speech dives very quickly into 'too fast for Wally to understand with his head this foggy' territory, so all he can do is interrupt. "Uncle B, what are you even talking about?"

The Flash's head jerks up with lighting speed, pale blue eyes locking tightly onto his.

And then he runs from the room.

Wally is left confused, but before he can think too much on it, his uncle comes back, dropping two martians and a bat at the foot of his bed.

"Check his mind," Uncle Barry says. "Check his mind right now."

M'Gann looks confused until she realizes who lies on the bed.

She jerks forward, arm outstretched, before pulling it back just as quickly. The action makes his heart hurt, because he doesn't think M'Gann has ever mistrusted him.

"M'Gann," he says, and then reaches out to her through the subliminal remains of a decade of mindlinks.

Her brown eyes widen.

"Wally," she whispers, and throws herself onto the bed, wrapping him in a hug.

He feels both her and Manhunter sifting through his mind, but he leaves it open for them; the action requires more will than it used to.

He feels Batman sulking in the corner, trying to subtly watch his every move.

"He is clear," Manhunter says, and suddenly Barry is right next to him, arms around both him and M'Gann.

“We’ve missed you, Kid,” Barry says, and for the first time in a lifetime, Wally feels safe.

**

They came at night.                                           

Dick doesn’t recognize them, but they act with a decisive force that tells him it is not mutual. Six intruders, most grown men of about the same build, two women thinner than rails.

A year ago, this would have been easy. Now, with only his police workout regimen and the dregs of a lifetime of bat training, and only the gun he keeps at his bedside, it is a little bit harder.

He fights, and dodges, and evades, but each man is easily larger than him and each woman easily faster, so all he does is delay the inevitable.

He only manages to take out half before one grabs him from behind and another presses a needle into his arm.

Richard Grayson is asleep before he even hits the floor of their van.

***

What remains of Wally’s old team arrives the next day.

They tell him they would have come earlier, if his uncle had not been so adamant about making sure he was okay first. He tells them not to worry about it.

Artemis is the first to enter. She approaches him slowly, carefully, and the hesitation in her movements kills him, even more than M’Gann’s had. But she stretches out her hand, and he entwines their fingers, and she allows herself to cry.

Conner and M’Gann come in next, holding hands as well, and the sight makes him smile.

Kaldur follows the two closely, his colorless eyes keen but soft, and Wally thinks that he has changed the least.

They all hug him briefly before settling on or close to the bed. Everyone seems reluctant to let him go; Artemis sits right next to him, hand gripping his, and M’Gann presses closely to the both of them. Superboy sits on the chair, but grips Wally’s forearm tightly. Kaldur presses a hand to his shoulder. He feels uncomfortable with all the contact, but feels decidedly less comfortable with the idea of telling them to step away.

“We are glad you are back, my friend,” Kaldur says.

“It feels like I’ve been gone forever,” Wally replies, trying to keep his voice as light as possible.

“We thought you were dead,” Artemis whispers. The room hums only with breath.

“Well, I hope you’re not disappointed,” he laughs, and the others spare him sad smiles.

He scans all of their faces briefly, memorizing them, because it was only hours ago he thought he’d never see any of them again. Wally freezes, though, as he realizes something. “Where’s—” he chokes for a second, because he fears the answer. “Where’s Nightwing?”

He sees M’Gann and Kaldur share a quick glance. Artemis squeezes his hand.

“No one knows.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wally spends some time trying to get information about his friend, while Dick begins to learn the nature of his situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this story got a lot more support than I thought it would! I have the next few chapters all written, so expect pretty regular updates for the next few weeks. thank you all so much!

Dick thinks they’ve been traveling for about three hours when he wakes up.

Since he’s basing this assumption purely on how sore his arms are, though, there’s plenty of room for error. Though he’s been kidnapped under various personas enough times in his twenty years of life that he can use it as a pretty accurate estimate.

He doesn’t yet think the sun’s up, and the van they have him in is dark and bare. His wrists are tied with a thin cord—fishing wire?—wrapped tightly and layered with duct tape. Same for his ankles and knees, with something similar cutting into the corners of his mouth. They definitely don’t want him loose. Maybe because he managed three non-fatal shots in the pitch-black of his apartment.

Even since distancing himself from the team and Nightwing, there are some skills he is sure to maintain.

***

Wally panics.

M’Gann senses it immediately and attempts to calm him through the link, but it is a light brush through the panicked chaos of his mind. All he can think is that  _ my best friend is gone, is missing, dead somewhere without ever knowing I’m alive. _

It takes all four of them explaining quickly and repeatedly for Wally to understand that Dick is not missing because he was taken, he is missing because he does not want to be found. He left the team days after Wally’s disappearance, and no one has been able to find him since.

“We’ve tried to find him. We’re still trying. We think, now that you’re back—” Artemis cuts off, shaking her head, as if she can’t believe it herself. “Maybe he’ll come back too.”

**

It is the next day, and Dick still doesn't know why they took him.

It unnerves him, for two reasons: one is that they could be anyone, for anything, and as a person with more than one identity to protect this means he is forced to be  _ very _ careful about everything he says. The other is that this could also be just an ordinary, let's-kidnap-Bruce-Wayne's-kid, and while Dick was (fairly) certain Bruce will pay whatever ransom, he’s in no mood to see his mentor again.

Especially right after he got kidnapped. That would be embarrassing.

They've moved him from the floor of the van to a metal chair in a room. He was hooded when they moved him, so he couldn't see anything outside, other than it must've been dark. He wasn't trained by Batman for nothing, however; he noticed the slight salty taste in the air, the sharp increase in humidity from Central (where he’d been staying), and the smell of sweat from the people leading him inside. Nevertheless, these gave him precious few clues about his location.

He would’ve fought, but considering the position he was in, he didn't like his odds.

His hands have stopped bleeding from the wire they used to bind him, but his knees scream every time he twitches. He’s tried to wiggle and twist enough to gain access to at least one set of bindings, but there’s just no way to reach one without dislocating something, and he’s hesitant to do that so early in a kidnapping.

Suddenly, there's the slam of a door and ignition of footsteps. He isn't sure how long he sat there, tied to a chair welded to the floor, or even how long it's been since he was attacked. All he knows, and it frustrates him to admit it, is that any chance for escape he had has probably passed. 

The door to the room he’s in creaks open, and a chair scrapes against the ground. “Richard Grayson.” The voice reminds him of snow, of thick piles of ice ready to cover any who cross. A hand presses over his eyes under the thick hood before it is lifted, and the tight gag harshly released. He leans as far forward as he can, and blood drips from his tongue and the corner of his mouth. “You’re a hard man to track down.”

“Now, would you mind telling me,” Dick jerks his head because now they are on the other side of the room, and he didn’t hear them move. He is extremely upset that he can no longer target the man’s exact location just by following his voice, and he’s beating himself up internally for being so lax in his training, because  _ of course  _ his days of kidnappings are not over.“Where the bastard son of a billionaire learned to shoot so well?”

Dick recalls now the theory that often passed through Gotham gossip articles—about how Dick is actually Bruce’s illegitimate kid, taken in after his mother was rendered incapable of caring for him, the circus some kind of cover or rumor.

If they are basing their information on gossip and theories, this might be easier than he thought.

It is startlingly easy to slip into the persona he assumes they expect. “I just got lucky.”

“Of course. Three bullets, three kneecaps, all with no light. Lucky.”

Dick shrugs and leans back, no easy task in the unrelenting metal chair he sits tied to, thick hood still cinched tight around his neck. “Well, police training certainly helps.”

“I’m sure.”

He gets the feeling that this man talking, along with the two guards also in the room, are all watching him for something specific. But he is nothing if not an excellent performer.

“Look, I'm not really sure what you want," he says, shrugging. This time, the action pulls painfully on the binds around his wrists, and he hisses slightly. "I'm a pretty good shot. Adrenaline. I got lucky. It doesn't matter."

He hears one of the guards shuffle a little.

“Now can we just get onto the ransom demands?"

That snow falls and lands right on Dick as the man laughs.

"Ransom? Is that what you think?"

His blood freezes.

"We're not going to ransom you. Not yet, in any case." The man sits in the chair that was earlier dragged against the ground, causing the legs to squeal as they accommodate the new weight. "No, we need some information first."

"Information?" Dick asks, but even as he does, he knows it can't be good. His brain can’t help but focus intently on the subject ‘we’.

"You see, it is well known that your guardian, Bruce Wayne, has had many dealings with the superhero organization known as the Justice League." The man pauses, probably for dramatic effect. It works. "We want you to tell us everything you know."

Dick forces a laugh, but it sounds hollow and scared. "I don't know much. Certainly not enough to warrant a kidnapping."

"We have cause to believe that you do."

"Listen, whoever you're getting your rumors from? They're feeding you lies. It's pretty well known that I haven't even spoken to Bruce in over a year. Why would you think—"

Something sharp goes again into his shoulder, and the memory of the night before, when they grabbed him in the quiet of his home, appears painfully in his mind.

“What the—” he yells, before losing the use of his tongue.

Slowly, he begins to feel the effects of the toxin they injected him with—he can’t swallow, and feels saliva pooling in the back of his throat; his jaw relaxes, dropping open; pretty soon, he can’t move his neck. The numbness crawls slowly across his skin, and all of his muscles tingle just before they stop responding.

It is terrifying.

“Curare,” the voice explains. “A muscle paralytic.”

Dick is familiar with curare, though he’s never felt the effects for himself. Suffice to say, he could have lived without.

“It’s not permanent, don’t worry. The next time you mouth off, however, might be a different story.”

This was why they drugged him--so he couldn’t argue back.

Dick can’t describe how much he hates this. He can’t move, and he’s starting to feel a little as if he can’t breathe. Helplessness has never been something he’s ever been able to handle, and this was the paradigm.

“We believe you know a little something about the Justice League. Names, facts, figures, locations.  And that you’ll be willing to tell us.”

Dick laughs a little, causing his chest to jerk awkwardly and an odd choking sound to force its way from his throat. 

He hears the door open, and the vacant sound of a safety clicking off and a gun cocking. He’s not worried that they’ll kill him, though; you can’t get information from a dead man.

Unfortunately, it seems they have no qualms about shooting him.

The bullet only grazes the skin on his thigh, but he thinks it could perhaps be deep enough to warrant stitches. He cries out, screaming until his throat feels raw. The pain, though, is dwarfed by the ringing in his ears from the gunshot itself.

He doesn’t hear the door close.

***

Wally doesn’t get the courage to ask about Dick again until Bart visits him, trailed hesitantly by Robin and Blue Beetle.

“You’re really not dead!” Bart yells as he races into the room, practically tackling Wally in his hospital bed. He begins talking faster than Wally suspects either of their brains can keep up, so he doesn’t even try. Instead, he studies the two other boys.

They’re all in costume, because as far as the media’s concerned, they’re visiting the current Kid Flash. Bart’s been relegated to his former Impulse get up, though Barry informed him he switched to the Kid Flash mantle a few months before. Wally’s more relieved than he cares to mention that Bart didn’t come in one of his old costumes. He met Robin briefly before quitting the team, but Jaime joined a few months after he’d left. He knows nothing about the latter except what Artemis and Dick briefed him on before the chrysalis fiasco. And he knows nothing about the former except for that he is Dick’s little brother.

Bart suddenly races over to the others, practically jumping in excitement. “Guys. Wally’s not dead.”

“We know,” replies Robin, with all the Bat stoicism ingrained in him.

“Hey, Bart,” Wally calls. “Tone it down.”

Bart manages to turn it down a few notches. Not much, but enough that Wally no longer feels as if his brain might split from his skull.

God, he is tired.

“Tell me about what’s been going on.”

Bart’s eyes light up, and he more than happily launches into an incredibly detailed account of every event that he recalls.

Wally tries to follow, he really does. But his mind gets lost somewhere along the way, and pretty soon it is all he can do to stay awake.

Bart’s up to about the last month when Barry pokes his head into the doorway, taking in Bart’s enthusiasm and Wally’s clear exhaustion.

“Hey, guys,” Barry says. “Kaldur called. He wants you back at base.”

Wally shoots him a grateful glance as Bart hugs him one last time before running to the door. Wally shakes his head; the kid has even less control than he had. The others turn to follow.

“Robin,” Wally calls, and feels extremely uncomfortable under the scrutinizing look Robin gives him. He’s an invalid that still can’t quite sit up, covered only in the thin fabric of his hospital gown, and feels unusually disconcerted. “Can I ask you a question?”

The others pause just outside the door, but Beetle must get the impression that this isn’t a conversation for them to hear, because he manages to drag an unwilling Bart down the hall.

Robin stands, as the door shuts, across the room, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Wally finds himself comparing this Robin with the one he knows so well.

He’s stockier than Dick had been, that’s for sure. Taller, too, although not by much. Dick didn’t really hit any growth spurts until sixteen, when he spent a very uncomfortable few years feeling out of touch with his own body. Wally’s sure it’s the first time he’d ever seen the other boy trip.

It is only when he realizes how hard Tim’s glower has turned that Wally finds it within himself to stop.

“I just need to—”

He’s cut off before he even asks the question. “No one knows where he is. Not even us.”

“You have to have some idea.”

“He’s not in Gotham.”

Wally deflates. “Have you tried—”

“M’Gann can’t find him. He’s either blocking both her and Manhunter’s telepathy, or he’s out of range and they have no idea where to look. Batman has come to terms with his disappearance, and has decided to quit looking, even though we all knows he’s worried over it. And, even between both Batgirl and I, Dick’s always been the better hacker, better at covering his tracks. So we can’t find him that way.”

“Zatanna?”

“She won’t help us. She respects his decision.” Robin shakes his head. “We don’t know where he is, Wally.”

His whispered repetition sounds like an admission, and one that feels a lot like defeat.

“He’ll come back,” Wally says, voice just as low. He isn’t sure why he reassures Tim when he feels a lot like he could use some reassurance himself.

Robin glares harshly at his folded arms before sweeping quickly from the room. Wally leans back in his hospital bed and glares harshly at the spotted ceiling tiles. He suspects that his lacks both the energy and training that Robin’s held. And also the dramatic exit.

“God, Dick,” he says to the silence of his room. “Where are you?”

**

Dick has absolutely no idea where he is. And it might be the most frustrating thing that’s ever happened to him.

Dick has been struggling to gather some clue as to where they were holding him for the better part of what must be at least a day. What he would do with that information, he isn’t sure, but the sheer annoyance of not knowing was beginning to chip away at him.

He can’t see, his nose is clouded by the stale smell of gunpowder and blood, and he’s knocked all too easily out of focus by the pain in his leg. It’s finally stopped bleeding, but he fears the time he’ll have to put any weight on it.

He finds himself wondering in his delirium what the chances of his family or old teammates finding him are, before concluding that they are not high. They’d have no way to find him.

If they even knew he was missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, thank you all for the comments and kudos!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick begins to realize he might be playing a long game while Wally begins his search.

The Flash sits on the chair next to Wally, trying to focus on paperwork. Wally hasn’t been hospitalized since the accident that gave him his powers, so many years ago; every bad injury since then had been handled either at the mountain or at his house. He hadn’t realized there was so much to fill out. 

“How bad was it?” he asks, his voice a little slurred. He is still very tired, and is sure they have him on some pretty strong drugs after his surgery that day.

Barry sighs.

“It’s been worse. And your accelerated healing doesn’t hurt, either.” That isn’t what Wally’s looking for, and his uncle knows it. He shakes his head, shuffles his papers aside, taking his sweet time in doing so, and crosses the room to Wally’s medical report.

“Minor concussion. Muscle strain in both of your knees and an ankle. Torn muscle in both legs. Torn ligaments in your left knee.” Barry’s voice is unusually somber, something rare among the Flash family. “Mild Hypothermia. Severe dehydration and starvation. Mild lung infection from all that Pacific Ocean you inhaled. And, to top it all off, one nasty sunburn.”

“I could have died.”

“Yeah.”

Wally stares at his hands. They feel like the only part of his body that was still whole, that hadn’t been affected. “I kind of did, didn’t I?”

Barry doesn’t say a word.

**

They’ve left him in this God-forsaken room forever.

He’s been drifting in and out of sleep for the past several hours, because his body is just too weak at this point to keep him awake, and his position too uncomfortable to keep him asleep. They haven’t given him anything to eat or drink, and he thinks that the next time they come in, he’ll have to give them a lesson on the limits of the human body. If he can even speak.

He needn’t worry, however; the next time he falls asleep, he finds himself awoken with a harsh slap moments before his hood is lifted and a water bottle is shoved to his lips.

Barely managing to control his thirst, he takes small sips and holds the water in his parched mouth, letting it soak there a few moments before swallowing. The thin knowledge of what to do in these situations is the only thing keeping him from trying to down it whole.

It isn’t long before the bottle is removed. Dick briefly considers arguing before he feels a sharp knife press along the skin of his ankle.

For a piercing second, he is terrified that they intend on cutting his tendons, rendering him unable to walk ever again. It is enough to finally shake off most of the previous fog of sleep, and he prepares to fight viciously, as much as he can, before he hears the sound of duct tape being ripped.

Wire cutters slice the wire underneath it, before whomever untying him moves onto his knees. Dick sags in relief, exhaustion, and a measure of newfound comfort.

His wrists are released, something clatters onto the ground, and the door is closed again.

He just slides as far down the chair as he can manage, all of his muscles groaning at the change in position.

It is probably a few hours later before he finds it in himself to move again, grasping weakly at the hood on his head and yanking it off, throwing it as far as he can across the floor. It lands maybe three feet from the chair.

He forces himself not to stare at the ugly sores on his wrists, sure without checking that they will scar terribly. Instead, he focuses his attention to the water bottle left behind, returning to his earlier task of consuming it entirely.

In an effort to slow his drinking, as he isn’t sure when he’ll be receiving more, he observes the room, now with the addition of another sense.

It’s concrete, meaning there will be no leaving other than through the thick metal door, with only a small keyhole on its surface. He knows he’ll be able to pick it, but he’s unsure if his captors will be lax enough to allow him the chance.

A metal bucket sits on its side in the corner, and Dick can only assume it’s their alternative to a restroom. He can only say it’s better than he’s been having to do.

His muscles scream as he stretches out as far as he can on the cold floor, everything cramped and tense from the past few days of being in the same, unrelenting position. The movement reminds him of his bullet wound, as it screams in pain. He winces sharply and sits up, resigned to the fact that something will definitely have to be done.

The legs of his sweatpants from the knee down have been effectively worn thin by the wire, enough that they tear like they’re perforated. It’s simple enough to untangle the seams, and he’s sure to pocket the thread. Soon enough, he has a dozen thin strips of cloth, enough to create fresh bandages every few days for a while.

It’s a pain doing so. He tears one of his strips into thirds, wetting it as much as he is willing, and attempts to clean it, at least a little. That notion doesn’t last long  _ because he thought it hurt before holy-- _ so he ends up pressing it to the wound and tying two strips on top to keep it in place.

It isn’t long after that when he can no longer force his eyes open, and he falls asleep leaning against the wall farthest from the chair.

***

The next day, Wally is released from the hospital.

The doctors seemed reluctant to release him so soon, but the all the tests pointed to him being completely healed, and Wally is itching to leave. He decides he’ll be happy if he never has to see a hospital again.

Barry is inclined to lock him right back up in the Watchtower, but Wally shuts that down almost immediately.

“Staying another night in a hospital bed won’t do anything.” He takes a breath. “Barry, I need to go home.”

To him, he hasn’t seen his parents in a lifetime. To them, they’ll never see him again.

His family wasn’t allowed to visit him in the hospital, for fear of blowing his civilian cover. To say he was extremely upset with the decision would be an understatement, but even his uncle was in agreement.

“It’ll only put them in danger. Besides, you’re almost healed. You’ll see them soon.”

Now that the time has come, though, he’s damn near hesitant. It seems unfair, somehow, to just pop back into their life. They’ve spent over a year without him. Artemis tells him they were devastated to hear what had happened, but, somehow, he can’t bring himself to see them again.

“Don’t you think it’ll be cruel?” he asks. “Coming back, a year into their lives, after they’ve given up hope?”

“Don’t you think you’re being cruel?” Artemis bites back. “Not telling two people that their son is alive?”

He shakes his head because even though he can’t think of an argument, it doesn’t change the fact that the mere thought of actually seeing his parents again twists an ugly knot deep in his gut.

He eventually asks her to leave. She hesitates only a second before doing so.

Though nearly everyone argued about it, he finally gains allowance to be alone when he visits them. They’re all reluctant to go through with it, but no one tries to stop him when he stands outside the hospital doors. He waves at the few there to see him off--Barry, Bart, Artemis and Kaldur--before turning the corner into an alley, from which they assume he’ll be taking off, running towards home in Keystone.

Instead, he finds his way to a busy street and asks for directions to the nearest bus stop.

He might’ve gone home, if he didn’t still think it would be cruel. He might’ve run, if the idea didn’t inspire a vicious headache and a tearing feeling in his legs.

Bus fare is thirty dollars, easily covered by the money Barry gave him for snacks.

Wally hasn’t ridden in a bus since before his powers manifested either, and the experience is strange. There aren’t many others going the same way he is, so he finds himself as close to alone as he’s been since he washed up on shore.

The thirteen hour drive leaves him entirely too much time alone with his thoughts, so he finds himself writing mental letters to those he misses. It’s a strange and lonely pastime, and he’s relieved when he finally falls asleep, and then later, when they finally pull up to his stop.

It takes some time to walk from the bus stop, and he begins to wonder if it wouldn’t have been easier to just figure out the subway line. But eventually he manages to find his way over to the warehouse district on the docks, just before the sun sets on the dirty brown water. 

He takes a chance and uses an ounce of his speed to catapult him over the chain link fence and instantly regrets it when he lands face-first on the unforgiving gravel on the other side. It occurs to him only then that he may not quite be healed enough to be jumping fences, but he supposes it’s also too late to be thinking logically about his decisions.

His legs know where to go before his brain can quite remember. Soon enough, he’s looking up at the ugly gray building his best friend once practically lived in.

Dick had an apartment deep in the city, but Wally knew he spent maybe half his day there, and slept there even less. If there was anything left to find in Bludhaven, it would be here.

**

Dick didn’t think that waiting could be worse than torture, but here is is.

He supposes that if the last few months have taught him anything, it should be that. Waiting, learning, struggling, drowning. He should be used to it by now.

It still hurts, though, because he isn’t.

They haven’t brought him any more food since the last visit, but water has appeared just inside the door every time he wakes up from a particularly long nap. Fatigue is well and truly setting in, and it becomes all he can do just to keep his eyes open.

He wishes he could have something to hope for, something to hold on to. But none of his friends know where he is, or even to look for him. 

He’s lost the most important thing in his life twice, and he pushed the rest of them away. It’s his own grave to lie in; he isn’t sure he regrets it, even now.

***

Wally is more than a little surprised when his access codes work.

Dick gave him a separate password set, just in case something happened and Wally needed to get inside. He’s used them once or twice before, but he figured that after he’d died, Nightwing would have been cautious enough to remove them from the system.

The warehouse, as per usual, is dark. The windows are filthy after a year of disuse, and even when Dick was here, they were never cleaned particularly often or well. Wally has to grope along the wall until he happens upon the light switch, and flicks it on.

He then curses loudly as a violent shock shoots its way up his arm, every nerve spasming before his right arm falls completely numb at his side. He isn’t sure whether that was a purposefully set trap or if the wiring just shorted.

Carefully, he tries the one next to it, and the lights flicker on, the elaborate computer setup along the north wall whirring as it begins booting up.

If Wally was surprised that his codes worked, that’s nothing compared to the shock at finding everything practically untouched after a year of being left at the mercy of looters and squatters.

He ducks under the curtain beneath the staircase, eyes roaming quickly over the storage boxes and weapons kept there, before running up to the overhang. The extra beds are untouched, omitting the thin layer of dust coating their white sheets.

Underneath the third bed against the far wall, there was once a trunk that Wally knew contained Dick’s ‘Flying Graysons’ poster and anything he’s ever gotten from Haley’s Circus or kept from Bruce. And between those, his Robin costume, nestled inside a spare Nightwing one.

The trunk is gone, probably wherever Dick disappeared to. In its place sits a much smaller cardboard box.

Wally gets excited, because there’s something concrete left behind, something he can dig through and find clues in. Upon dumping its contents, though, his heart stops a beat.

Letters. Dozens and dozens of envelopes, addressed but not sent, pour forth onto the ground. They stain the brown floorboards with their white.

Mixed with those are picture frames and postcards, pieces of fabric and scribbled-on sheets of notebook paper.

Wally studies it all with increased care. He stacks the letters into piles as fast as he can while touching them as little as possible so that soon, there are only the pictures and memorabilia.

It takes him a moment to realize that they’re all things from their teens. Notes, fabric swatches from torn costumes and costume designs, pictures taken of or by them, most stupid or completely irrelevant. He can’t stop smiling, even as something inside him falls apart.

Dick left this all behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these boys deserve so much


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the quiet begins to get to Dick, and Wally begins searching out the pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading!
> 
> Quick plug- if you like my writing, and gay superheroes/villains, I'd really appreciate if you checked out my [podcast](https://aceofhearts-official.tumblr.com/post/165139730764/what-is-ace-of-hearts). It's got gays, and superpowers, and villains and gray morality. The episodes are pretty short, only about 10 minutes long, so even if you've never listened to a podcast before/don't have much time, I encourage you to give it a try. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy the chapter!

In the quiet Dick’s left in, his mind finds itself at its loudest.

He made sure he didn’t have any time to think after Jason died. Took on bigger jobs with the team, drowned himself in cases at work. Nightwing became a near-constant presence on the streets; Bludhaven found itself with the lowest crime rate it’d seen in a decade.

After Wally died, he filled his time even thicker, finding extra ways to distract himself without the bonus of running the team or fighting crime. Double shifts at work, helping others around his apartment complex, an exponentially growing amount of web searching.

That was the worst, really. Having no idea what happened, no idea how to possibly fix it. He was left without any idea what happened to his best friend, and not even a body to show for it.

The first few months, he was consumed by it. He moved to Keystone, where Wally grew up, and threw everything he had into searching for an answer.

Even the best of what he could find, though, was entirely theoretical. He had no way to gain access to Reach research, and the closest thing he could figure was quantum theory, which no one actually knew anything about

Six months, his life consumed entirely by searching.

***

Logically, Wally can understand. Dick is running from something, hiding in a place no one can find him. He’s always dealt with his grief by burying it, an extremely unhealthy practice, but the one he’s been most exposed to. Wally should be surprised that he even kept any of this in the first place.

This doesn’t stop the choking feeling crawling its way up his throat, though, so soon he forces himself to put everything down and turns his attention to the computer downstairs.

Wally remembers Dick’s excitement when he finally finished getting everything moved in and set up. The set-up was modeled after Batman’s, but Nightwing spent a long time and a lot of money ensuring it was much more elaborate.

Wally sits carefully on the edge of the seat in front of the monitors, and he feels the hum of the computers deep in his bones. He fiddles with the mouse until the black screen blinks, showing only a prompt for a password.

It soon becomes apparent that despite years of having an expert hacker for a best friend, Wally has no talent, it seems, for hacking. Especially not hacking that same best friend.

He isn’t sure how long he sits there, trying passwords. Names, of his parents and friends and past girlfriends. Places, where he’s lived or favorites that he visited with Haley’s Circus. Numbers, of birthdays and deathdays and random phrases in codes the two of them made up.

Then Wally’s comm buzzes uncomfortably in his ear, the static crackling loudly before someone’s voice floods the line. “West?”

He barely restrains himself from cursing aloud because _he forgot about the comm device._ Of all the things…

“Hey,” he responds, drawing the word out as he scrambles to recognize the voice. It takes him more than a few seconds of frantic grasping before he recognizes who’s on the end of the line. “Tim? What’s up?”

“Where are you that your signal’s so scrabbled?”

“You can’t hear me?” He frowns a bit, because Tim’s coming in clear.

“I can hear you fine,” Tim responds, and he hears a bit of yelling in the background. “I just can’t locate you.”

“You’re tracking me?”

“Of course I’m tracking you.” Someone in the background screams in laughter. Wally feels he can hear Tim grinding his teeth. “When I lost your signal, I figured I’d make sure you weren’t dead somewhere.”

Wally, with some impressive restraint, ignores this. “Who planted the tracer?”

Tim sounds distracted. “I can track your comm.”

“How? It’s only on our network--only other Leaguers--”

“The Flashes’ comm systems always have poor security. They’re the easiest thing I’ve cracked in a while.”

He is reminded suddenly that while no one is as good a hacker as Dick, Tim had the same mentor.

“So, where are you? I know you’re in Bludhaven--and, listen to me, Wally, there’s nothing left there.”

Wally glances around the very intact warehouse and thinks of the box at the top of the stairs. “What are you saying? Nothing’s moved since he left.”

“We cleaned out his apartment--”

“But you didn’t check his base?”

There is silence on the other end for long enough that Wally grows mildly concerned. “Tim?”

“What base? How did you get in?”

“My codes still worked,” Wally answers immediately. “Wait, you mean to tell me that you didn’t?”

“How do you have--” Tim cuts himself off, scoffing to himself. “Nevermind. Listen, send me the address. I’m going to meet you there.”

“You really shouldn’t--”

“I’m going to meet you there.”

**

Since the first man, no one has come for information.

Dick has the vague sense to be worried about it, but, for the most part, he can’t be bothered to care.

He wonders if this abandonment is meant to break him. He wonders if they actually think they’ll get info from him. He wonders when his next meal will be.

Funny thing is, the isolation they’ve left him in doesn’t compare at all with the isolation he created for himself this past year.

***

Tim arrives at the warehouse about the time Wally has grown well and truly frustrated with the computer in front of him.

He’s tried every possible combination, even trying some in specific orders because _Dick would._ It takes an hour and a half, much longer than Wally would have guessed he’d last.

He’s intensely grateful that Tim has yet to question why Wally’s in Bludhaven instead of at home.

Tim, as he looks around the warehouse, hides his surprise well, but Wally’s trained at looking for tells. He notices the slight hesitation at the door, the upwards cock of the head, how his posture slips as he’s preoccupied with observing.

“You really didn’t know about this?”

“No, I did,” Tim says, voice betraying how distracted he is. “This is where the team stayed after the base blew. I--we--no one thought to look here. He wouldn’t have moved anything personal or important someplace others would regularly look, and he kept his files networked with the computer at his apartment.” Tim turns to him, eyes peeking from behind the edges of his shades. “Why did you?”

“Dick’s been using this for his Nightwing operation for ages. I knew the team was staying here, but Dick would know how to keep hidden what he wanted.”

Tim pauses for a second and closes his eyes. Wally watches his breath rattle his chest, the shattering rise and fall earned by those guarding the loudest emotions.

After a moment longer than he could stand, he begins walking towards the one thing he’s sure Tim can help with. “The computer’s over here.”

**

The worst wakings are the ones where he forgets.

When night isn’t so bad, so mornings are peaceful and hazy. No nightmares, so no memories. He’s always been a slow waker.

Then the ground resolves itself to be the concrete of a bunker and the tingling in his leg a bit more worrying than simple discomfort.

He isn’t sure how long he’s been left here. Based only on water distribution and assuming daily, four or five days. Most of a week.

Bizarrely, he worries about work. His current persona has never taken a day off. He has a few friends, people he talks to during his shift. Dick’s uncertain if his kidnapper cared or was smart enough to cover Dick’s absence.

He hopes someone’s watering his plants.

***

It takes Tim an hour to get past Dick’s firewall, and twice that to download the contents of his hard drive.

“I’m going to take this back to the Batcave,” he says, slipping it into the inside pocket of his jacket. “Have Batman and Batgirl look it over with me.”

He doesn’t move, though, from his place at the desk, and instead takes to clicking idly through the computer. Part of Wally hates this invasion of privacy on behalf of his friend, but the rest of him looks at Tim’s stony face and sees the same frustration and anger at being stonewalled and lost that Wally feels in his veins. Dick left. He isn’t here. All they have of him is a box full of letters and a few heavily encrypted files.

It is only because Wally is studying Tim so closely that he sees the confusion flicker across Tim’s face (really just a slight crease in his eyebrows, tilt of his lips, jerking of the mouse; it is astonishing how alike his and Dick’s tells are.) Wally glances at him and then the screen, eyes following the cursor as it flicks across the files. “What is it?”

Tim eyes him for a second. “Some of these files were opened recently.” He sets the folder to sort by date last opened, and the top several have been in the past few weeks.

“Does that mean--”

“No,” Tim says, tone firm and immediate. “We would have known if he came back here. Batman has enough contacts in the city keeping an eye out. No...he must be…” Tim clicks open a prompt space and begins sketching some lines of code. Wally doesn’t even attempt to understand either his motive or his actions, content with waiting only because of the knowledge that he won’t receive an explanation for either without slowing Tim down.

Tim, apparently, doesn’t need prompting. “In order for Dick to access any of this, it must be on some server so he can get to it from a different computer but still have it connected to this one.” Something occurs to him that makes him frown, but he shakes it off before Wally feels the need to ask about it. “I might be able to...now that I’m in the mainframe….” He enlarges the files and, in a series of keystrokes, brings a list of all the dates the most recent ten or so files were opened, and begins fiddling with the properties and former files of each.

Wally eyes the dates, because the most recent one was about a week ago, the day before Wally’s return from the dead. Independently, this isn’t any cause for concern, but combined with the fact that most of these are checked every day without break makes him pause.

He points this out to Tim, who looks at the dates with a frown. Wally takes advantage of his pause to commandeer the mouse, scrolling quickly through all of the dates with liberal use of his superspeed.

“Every day,” he says once finished. “At least one of these files was checked every day, until last week.”

“What are you thinking?” Tim asks, but Wally’s brain is already eighteen steps and four bad scenarios ahead, and all he can consider is everything bad that has ever happened to the two of them.

“Tim,” Wally says, “what are the odds that something happened to him?”

Tim’s already shaking his head, and Wally sees the pragmatic, Batman-trained teenager surface. “Nothing did. Dick’s in deep cover. If none of us can find him, then no one else would either.”

“But what if someone does?”

Tim looks at him, pauses; then twists back to the computer in front of him, placing his palm once again on the mouse. “I’m done listening to your theories, West.”

But Tim’s thought of it, Wally knows; thought of it even before now, because while Tim’s never been as worse-case-scenario as Jason used to be, he’s always been close.

Tim begins clicking on each file, but every link requires a password.

Wally sees Tim grit his teeth, showing frustration for the first time sitting here. “Why is he so paranoid?”

Wally doesn’t bother responding; he just watches as Tim runs the same program he had to get into the computer, the combinations flashing on screen.

They sit in front of that computer for hours, until the sunlight filtering through the high windows has fallen enough that the room is lit only by the dim fluorescents overhead and the demanding blue light of the computer monitor.

**

Dick has spent time studying different torture techniques, and he’s always found isolation particularly interesting. The idea that without people surrounding you, you go insane. As someone who is extremely extroverted, he’s always found it easy to understand why.

He’s separated himself from forming any serious attachments, but he was always sure to go out when he can. He’s social, and even severing ties with everyone he’s ever known won’t change that.

Dick takes a swig of his daily water allotment, lets the liquid coat the inside of his mouth before swallowing.

He can feel his body growing weaker as the days go on. You can only go so long without food and sufficient water, and his body is far out of practice for such limitations.

He takes one more sip, then screws on the lid and throws the bottle across the room, where it hits the wall, bounces, and rolls back, resting a foot away from his leg.

Maybe solitary is affecting him more than he’d like to admit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! This story has gotten so much more support than I could have ever expected.
> 
> You can come to my tumblr [here](https://shelbychild.tumblr.com), if you want to shout with me about these kids. Again, if you like my writing, I'd love it if you'd check out my [podcast](https://soundcloud.com/ace-of-hearts-585838456) (about an ace and pan/genderfluid supervillain duet- I promise, you won't regret giving it a look.) The tumblr for that is [here](https://aceofhearts-official.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Again, thank you all! Heads up that this is the end of what I have already written, so I'm sorry if uploads slow. I'll do my best, and I'm excited about this story so hopefully it won't be too long between updates; this is just a warning that they may not be as regular. We'll see.
> 
> I hope you all have a great week!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dick thinks about what he left behind, and Wally discovers what was left for him.

Wally doesn’t mean to, but he falls asleep.

He supposes it was just a matter of time--aside from his sporadic naps on the bus, he’s been awake since they let him out of the hospital, and the ride to Bludhaven had been an overnight trip. He’s always needed a little more sleep to make up for the energy he’s constantly losing, and he hasn’t had near enough calories to make up the difference. 

When he wakes up Tim is gone, and a little cash is left behind with a letter that says things like I’ve gone back to the base, I’m going to keep looking over this, and you should really get something to eat.

Wally only leaves because his stomach is growling in agreement, and the little fridge against the back wall doesn’t hold anything he feels safe eating. He sets his phone and his comm unit on the desk, unwilling to carry either of them from the safety of the bunker, the quiet of the dampened signal. He doesn’t want to think about the mess he left behind, by coming here instead of his parents’. He’ll hear it from Tim soon enough, he’s sure.

He first tries to find the little hole-in-the-wall cafe that Dick used to frequent for his caffeine fixes when he was on the job, but he finds only a shiny new gas station and a curling feeling in his stomach that ruins his appetite. He still wanders over to the grocery store nearby, aware that he still needs the calories if he hopes to be any sort of conscious the rest of the afternoon.

The cash Tim left him combined with what he still has of Barry’s money buys him enough food to last him the rest of the day, if he doesn’t exert himself too much. Considering even a light run makes his insides heave and his legs ache, he doesn’t think it’ll be a problem. He’s definitely defied the doctor’s orders just by doing what he has, and he’s kept it as close to normal human tasks as he possibly could.

So he takes a few more rounds around the city, mentally marking things that have changed and things that haven’t. Dick’s apartment building still stands, but Wally isn’t confident enough that the Waynes kept paying rent to go inside. The cafe is gone, but another of Dick’s favorite haunts, a small book store, is just as messy as ever. He debates with himself for a while, but eventually, the need for something to be the same as he left it overrides his common sense, and he pushes open the heavy wooden door, the soft chime of the alarm following him inside.

The owner, an older woman with too-sharp eyes, recognizes him as soon as he enters.

“Hello!” she exclaims, waving a hand from where she is stocking books. “Wally, yes? Where’s your boyfriend?”

Wally flushes, but she waves a hand before he can correct her. “Yes, yes. ‘Friends,’ you always insisted. Tell him to come back. Both of you, gone for so long.”

“Sorry,” he says. “Things got--weird.”

“You two are alright, yes? Always so close.”

“Well--we’re alright. Probably. I haven’t seen him in a while, though. Did you say he hasn’t been in here for a while?”

“Once or twice, maybe. Always alone. Nice boy, but sadder without you. You didn’t break his heart, now, did you?”

Her gaze is accusatory, and while he doesn’t really have any reason to be, he finds himself defensive. “No, no--I just--something happened, and I had to go away for a while. When was he last in here?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It has been a while.”

“How was he?”

“Quiet.”

Wally shakes his head, the bell above the door ringing again as he lets himself out, tumbling back onto the street, sadness welling deep inside him.

**

The only time Dick lets himself think of the dead is right after he wakes up.

That gives him once a day to care, once a day to imagine what it would be like if his researched panned out. If he could go back in time and save his parents, save Jason, save Wally--before he has to shut it off and get to work. 

But here, there is no work he can bury himself under. There isn’t a precinct calling him in, there isn’t a wealth of information he can dig through if he just dedicates himself to it, there isn’t paper filled with letters that will never be read by the right people.

Instead, he’s left with his thoughts and his bitterness, and it’s beginning to eat away at his patience.

***

Wally, full and angry and quietly thunderous, heads back to the warehouse.

He’s angry, because--who does Dick think he is, to leave like that? Leave Tim, leave that shopkeep, leave him--didn’t Dick know he’d be back?

Why didn’t he wait?

Wally knows it’s unfair to ask of Dick, an impossible request. Dick, probably, was running from the very stagnation waiting would have caused. Wally knows him, knows how he deals with grief--

But as much as he knows this, it doesn’t stop the bitter anger crawling up his throat. And, so, even though he knows he shouldn’t, he keeps getting pulled back to the letters.

He’d done his best not to look at them too much. Touch them as little as possible, because while he’s got very little self-control when it comes to curiosity, there’s obviously things Dick didn’t want other people to find. However, as he was picking them off the ground yesterday, he saw several addressed to one Wally West, and, well--he can read what is written to him, right?

There’s just no way for him to resist the chance of finding something, anything, of Dick left behind.

He sits now in the middle of a few piles of precariously balanced letters, all sorted by who they’re addressed to. There’s a pile for Bruce, Tim, and Barbara. There’s a pile for a few assorted members of the team, names he doesn’t recognize or remember. There’s one for each member of their old team, the original Young Justice. A small pile for Zatanna. A pile for Jason, one he’ll never get to read.

A pile for him.

Wally is both surprised and not that his is the largest. He expected it, if nothing else because he’s known Dick the longest out of nearly everyone. He spends a minute running his hands over the addresses, the different color inks scattered across in the same, quick scrawl.

He takes the rest of the letters--except for the ones to Tim, in case he comes back--and shuffles them carefully back into the box, keeping them sorted. And he’s left with his own stack, staring up at him.

The envelopes are dated, and so Wally starts from the beginning. January 14th, 2009, a few days before Dick had told Wally his identity.

“I didn’t expect you to become my best friend.”

Wally slips in and out of using his speed to get through the letters faster, caught between the urge to savor them and to read them all as quickly as he can. There are letters written in English and letters written in what must be Romani, and ones that switch between the different languages, which Wally sets aside to translate later. There’s ones from when they were in middle school, ones from when they worked on the team together, ones from after Wally went to try and live a normal life.

Then, they stop.

It’s so abrupt that Wally goes back through the stacks, trying to figure out if he missed any. And then he checks again, because there has to be at least one more.

It feels like losing Dick all over again.

**

The letters used to help.

He started first when he was young, on his parents’ birthdays. Even before they’d died, he’d scribble notes in Romani or English or whatever scraps of language he’d picked up from the place they were staying. 

(He didn’t know how many hours they’d spend bent over these sheets of paper, trying to fathom how their son picked up so much in the few short days they’ve been there. How long they’d spend moving throughout the troupe, trying to find someone who knew enough to decode their son’s message. How savagely proud they were of him.)

It was a habit he found hard to shake. 

He wrote them in the summers after he’d been orphaned, the letters tucked tight in the back of his closet, in the bottoms of his drawers. Looking back on it, Bruce and Alfred must have known, but neither of them ever mentioned his letters to the parents he’d never see again.

He wrote them to Jason, in the months following his death. Dick was already practically leading the team by then, and as much as Jason’s death broke him, he couldn't show it. He had to be strong for the others, show them how to carry on. So he collapsed the only place he could--in the comfort of his own words. There were dozens of them from those first few months, and he’ll still write them now, when the days get so heavy he can't even speak--

He’d slip between English and Romani, as comfortable as anything, burying himself in his native language anytime he thought English was too raw. He’s always loved languages, and there’s no point in making sure a letter is legible when you’re writing to the dead.

When Wally passed, it got even worse.

He had no one to cover up for, then, except for himself. He knew he could break down, could seek out professional help, but at that point, he hadn't known how. The only way of dealing with grief that Dick knew was to bury it and keep going, and so that’s what he did. He knows now, knew then, that there are a thousand healthier ways to deal with a death. It just hadn’t seemed worth it when he can instead write a letter and then forget, at least for another day.

He never remembers much of what he writes, but he’s sure he’d be embarrassed if Wally ever saw them. Even if (when, he tells himself, when) Wally comes back, Dick’s sure he’ll never share them. They’re probably an incoherent mess, a mix of three or more different languages, all picked based on how much he could handle that day. 

The day he left the team, he wrote letters to Bruce and Alfred--to let them know, just in case he never made it back, how much they mean to him. Tim, too, as well as Barbara and Zatanna on occasion, and one for each original member of Young Justice. Those letters weren’t raw in the way his letters to the dead were, but they were honest in a way he couldn’t bring himself to be in person.

He’s not sure anyone will ever find them--they’re buried in a base only one other person had access to, and Dick would give just about anything to have that person back and breaking into his things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoop! Sorry this chapter took so long getting up, it took forever before I was happy with it (really, before I realized I never would be and I should just give it to you guys already.) Thank you so much for your kind words and support!  
> I can't promise when the next chapter will be up, but I can promise that it's coming. I hope to hear from you all soon!


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